


Life During Wartime

by NumberA



Category: Elyza Lex (Fanverse), Fear the Walking Dead (TV), QTWD, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, First Meetings, bikes in the apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7311442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NumberA/pseuds/NumberA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wisecracking Australian Elyza Lex is on a bikepacking trip from hell when she wakes up to what might just be her salvation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life During Wartime

**Author's Note:**

> Huge shout out to [SilverDagger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverDagger/pseuds/SilverDagger) for proofreading and Consulting Australian Damon for checking my lingo. Sorry about the first person, btw, it's my favourite voice to read and write in, but I acknowledge that reasonable people differ.

It’s an _awesome_ tree: thick, bandy foliage that’ll hide my skinny ass without killing my viz; a nice, gnarly trunk that won’t be too hard to scramble up; a good fork to sleep in; and branches strong enough to shimmy along and low enough to jump from. Best of all, it’s amongst a bunch of other trees just like it, shading a rest-stop with an lovely view of the Pacific. It won’t stand out and anyone - or more to the point any _thing_ \- happening by will be coming up the road where I can see them, and not up the cliffs. I company _does_ come calling, the wide spaces between the trees and broad California State Route 1 will make it easy to absent myself. Rule number one: cardio.

From my vantage point, I see that there’s a small town maybe five miles up the road. That’s a smidge closer than I’d like, but I’ve not been through there yet so any walkers lurking about have no reason to know I’m here. It’s scrubby bushes for yonks the way I came, so I’m not too worried about stalkers. Satisfied that doing so isn’t completely suicidal, I dismount Lance - my bicycle, short for Lancelot not Armstrong - and prop him against a different tree before canvassing the area. Nobody’s hiding in the bushes, the loo, or under any of the picnic tables, so I return to my noble steed and give him a good going-over. He’s doing well, considering, but the rack mounting is a bit wobbly, and I mentally add a new chain to my looting list for the next time I’m in town. There’s nothing wrong with the one I’ve got, all it needs is a good clean, but these days it’s all about the quick replace. I thought we were wasteful before, but consumerism’s got nothing on life in the zombie apocalypse. Oh well, at least we can all stop worrying about climate change now that our CO2 emissions are down 100%.

When I’m finished grooming my steed, I clean and oil my weapons. I never liked guns, and I still think that any civilized society should ban the damn things for everything except sport, but these days even I'm carrying. It’s sunset by the time I’m done seeing to my fight and flight essentials. I put the saddle-bags back on Lance; change my big girl pants (I never, _ever_ go into a building that’s only got one exit unless I absolutely _must_ , and let’s just say that things got a bit messy the first time a walker jumped me); stretch myself out; grab my evening supplies: a space blanket, a meal replacement bar, and my weapons; and climb up to my pine-scented bunk. From my perch, I watch the sun pick out the edges of clouds in gold as it drifts away over the sea. It’s high in the sky over Coffs Harbour right now, shining down on my friends and family - assuming they’re still alive. They might be, Australia’s got less people and better public health than America did, but last I heard things were looking pretty rough.

“Oi, sun!” I whisper, “Could you do me a favour, mate? Could you say ‘Hi’ to the fam for me? Tell mum I’m still alive and now that civilization’s fucking collapsed widespread gun ownership is the safest thing about life here. Heck, even _I’ve_ got three! They’ve got suppressors to cut down noise and recoil, and it’s been easy enough finding ammo. They have _names_ , mum. This is Mercy,” I point at my assault rifle hanging from a branch beside me, “She’s custom made, the legacy of a friend. My handguns are Bob and Holy Ghost. Bob’s nothing special, just your average Glock 17, but Ghost is a Browning Buckmark with a SilencerCo Spectre II. You shoot subsonic ammo from it, it doesn’t even sound like a gun. Very handy in a tight spot. Christ, listen to me: I sound like a bloody enthusiast. America man, it gets to you."

“Tell dad his bicycle maintenance lessons are pretty much the only reason I’m still alive, and tell Jarryd to hurry up and get his pilot’s so he can fucking come get me already. Tell Blake and Octavia that Lexie says ‘Hi’, and tell everyone that I love ‘em to bits, and that I hope things haven’t gone all Mad Max and shit over there the way they have here. Could you do that for me? Thanks.”

The sun’s gone and the wind off the ocean is cold. It’s still light enough to read so I pull out a trashy romance I picked up and flick through it for a bit. Highland chieftains with granite pecs and mighty claymores don’t really do it for me, but it’s silly enough to be distracting, and I won’t mind if I lose it during a getaway. When it gets dark, I put on my night vision goggles and huddle in my blanket until I drift off to sleep.

When I wake up, there’s a boat in the harbour. I whip out my binoculars for a closer look. It’s a moderate-sized luxury yacht, and has clearly stopped to pick up supplies from the town I saw last night. You could sleep on a boat that big, in a real bed, without worrying about walkers coming in the night to eat you. It might even have _showers_. I scan the shore and see an inflatable pulled up on the beach.

There’ve been walker attacks where I’ve moved less quickly. Ten seconds later I’m on the road and pedalling hard, and ten minutes later I’m close enough to hear gunfire above the wind in my ears. Clearly the run isn’t going well.

I follow the sound to what’s left of a Bartell Drug. My instincts are screaming at me to get in there, but I do a lap of the building before I halt and dismount, checking Bob and Ghost and shouldering Mercy as I run. Pausing, I crouch beside a window and peer inside. The store is broken into aisles by long shelves, low enough to see over but too high to jump easily. That’s good news: the walkers will have to come at me along predictable paths. Sixteen of the bastards are bunched up against the dispensary in the far left corner. I can hear the shouts of the trapped party above the creepy-as-fuck moaning of too many walkers in one place. From their voices, at least one of the boaties is a girl.

_“Oi!”_ I bellow, firing a few shots into the air as I stride into the store. Mercy’s got a suppressor, but that’s just the difference between loud and deafening. “Over here, you dumb fucks!” Nine walkers turn and start shambling towards me. Mindful of my footing amidst the debris, I cut to the right and jog past skincare products to the central aisle. The walkers can come at me in two ways: along the back and up through storage, or up the left wall and down the middle. Five go one way, four go the other. I give them a moment to get clear of the humans and open fire as soon as I’m reasonably sure I won’t hit anyone. As I’m picking them off, I hear a battle cry from the dispensary and a big, dark-haired bloke in a bulky brown jacket bursts out, laying into the dwindling horde with a machete. I finish with the four coming up through tupperware, and head up the middle to confront my would-be flankers. By the time I’ve splattered their brains over a wall of cheap headphones, he’s hacked the others to bits. Two teenagers, a boy and the girl I heard before, come out to join him. We stare at each other across a massive pile of multivitamin bottles and corpses.

Now that the fighting is over I’m anxious to get outside where I can see danger coming.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say to the boaties. “I’ll cover you.” Anyone who’s lasted in this world knows that walkers have a nasty habit of not being as dead as they look. I stand by, ready to shoot, as the three of them pick their way, one by one, across the carpet of bodies. Fortunately, this lot are properly dead and very soon we’re all standing outside, unsure what to say to each other. Suddenly, I’m very, very aware of how clean and well-groomed they are for survivors. I rubbed myself down with walker guts for olfactory camouflage three days ago and haven’t bathed in weeks. Plus I’m wearing lycra. Zombie scented lycra. There are _walkers_ that look more legit than I do. The boy looks at me doubtfully; the girl glances at jacket bloke, as though waiting for him to act. She’s got long, impossibly smooth brown hair, and bright green eyes.

“Thanks for helping us out back there,” says Jacket after a moment. “I wasn’t expecting so much trouble in this town.”

“No worries, mate,” I reply, wondering how to casually segue into begging them to take me on. “Least I could do. You from the boat?” He nods, and my ingenuity fails me.

“I’m sorry to be blunt, but is there room in your crew for one more?” His face goes all fixed, but I keep talking. “I’ve been on my own for a while now, and I’ve had enough of sleeping in trees. I don’t eat too much, you already know I can handle myself in a pinch, and...” I pause, hoping they won’t think I’m lying, “I’m a doctor.”

_That_ got their attention.

“Really?” the man asks, clearly suspicious. The boy looks stunned, and the girl looks genuinely excited. I feel a bit uncomfortable. 

“Well,” I shrug, “Technically I’m a 5th year student, but I know enough to be useful. I was studying at UNSW - in Sydney, Australia - but I came here to do a attachment in Sacramento where I had family. See the world, y’know? I was going to go back after a bikepacking trip along the coast, but it’s turned into the fucking Tour d’Pocalypse and yeah… You got room on the boat? I promise I’ll wash before coming aboard.”

He nods, almost smiling. “All right. It’s not my decision, but we’ll take you back to the _Abigail_ and we can talk it over with the group. You saved our lives, we owe you that much. I’m Travis, by the way. Travis Manawa. This is Nick,” he gestures at the boy, “And - “ The girl steps forward, smiling, and I cannot remember the last time I saw anything so beautiful.

“I’m Alicia,” she says. “Alicia Clark. Nick is my brother. Thanks for saving our lives.” My stomach clenches: she’s gorgeous, and way too young for me, and I shouldn’t even let myself _think_ these kinds of thoughts without knowing who these people are. Even so, my treacherous facial muscles pull my lips into the first true smile I’ve made in ages. She holds out her hand and I take it; her touch is like a shot of pure adrenaline.

“I’m Elyza,” I stammer, barely remembering to look around at the others. “Elyza Lex”

“Good to meet you Elyza,” she releases my hand and I foolishly wonder if she’ll ever hold it again. “Let’s get you back to the boat.” I glance at Travis. He nods, and I bend down and pick up Lance. 

“Can I bring my bike?” I ask, suddenly terrified of losing him. Travis looks puzzled. “It’ll be up to the group, but yeah, for now, sure.” I nod. Feeling lighter and more at ease than I thought I _could_ feel, but not so relaxed that I don’t stay on the outside edge where I’ve got space to mount up in a hurry, I fall in with the boaties and, together, we head towards the shore.

**Author's Note:**

> So, um, I've not actually watched either The 100 _or_ FTWD ^^; I started following a bunch of Clexa blogs on Tumblr because admire what the fandom is doing to combat Bury Your Gays and wanted to know more about it. Somehow this got mixed up with me wondering why there are [no bikes in the apocalypse](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/NoBikesInTheApocalypse) and, well, this happened. I thought it would be fun to play with source material I'm not directly familiar with, but if I've broken any fandom conventions I apologize. Your roof, your rule. I'm just a guest here.
> 
> Also, I hope I've not crossed any lines with the emphasis I place on assault rifles in light of recent events. I'm with Elyza when she says firearms have no place in civilized society, but if said society collapses, well, sometimes I think the reason post-apocalyptic fantasies are so darn popular is they give gun nuts a way to imagine their skills actually being useful :P Huge shout-out, btw, who the enthusiasts who write, blog, and vlog about weaponry and the zombie apocalypse. I don't think there's much we'd agree on, but if I get anything gun-related in this story right, it's all because of them.


End file.
